


anger (and the persistence of hope)

by lightburned



Category: Legacies (TV 2018), The Originals (TV)
Genre: 4 am musings, Drabbles, idk i had feelings, so this happened, technically it's just hope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:49:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23263507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightburned/pseuds/lightburned
Summary: Because I'm a Mikaelson.
Relationships: The Mikaelsons - Relationship
Kudos: 26





	anger (and the persistence of hope)

**Author's Note:**

> i know this isn't the hizzie fic i promised but DJKJKSD i was listening to instrumental music last night (twelve titans music specifically, y'all should check them oouut) and this happened at like 4 am so.

Hope was no stranger to it. The spark of steel on the smoldering coals in her belly, flickers of flame trailing up her veins and igniting everything beneath her skin along the way. The _boiling_ of it all. The raw power building up, inflating her lungs and tangling in her heartstrings, begging to be released. 

The knowledge that if she did, everything would be destroyed.

And maybe it would be easier that way. To not live every day with so much tension in her bones, the sharpness of a knife on her tongue. To simply feel things as they came and not feed it all to the fire. 

Sometimes, she wanted to. She wanted to rain hell on earth and burn it all to ashes, leaving behind nothing but the rubble of everything that hurt her. That dared to touch the people she cared for. She wanted to _scream_ until she could only cough up smoke, until the world dimmed and she was laid to rest.

But then she would remember her father, his insatiable heart that he only fed with the red dragon, the way he would kick up the ashes until there was simply nothing left but the shell of himself. The way he would only cause pain to the ones he loved, no matter how hard he tried. 

And perhaps she is cursed to the same fate. But she would not allow it to be because of that cursed thing buried so deeply in her heart. Because even when she’d tried, she _couldn’t._

When all of her pain had been directed at her uncle, the man who’d simply watched as her mother burned under the light of the sun she loved so much, when the whispers had _sung_ with the clarity of inflicting the damage upon him, she could not bring herself to do any worse. 

Just as she could not fling her father into the stone wall any harder. As she could raise the knife, but not bury it in Roman’s spine, the oblivious traitor that he was. 

As the flames at the old mill roared, and she _wanted_ to be engulfed with them, she extinguished. 

As the monsters who’d splintered what was left of her family ( _Or was that her own fault?_ ) fell to their knees in agony, the miserable lifeforce slipping from their grasp, and she still felt sickened with the awakening of her curse. 

_Because I’m a Mikaelson._

Because she was a Mikaelson, she was cursed to feel so _fiercely_ that it just may be the death of her. First or final, of which was left to be determined. 

She was the heir to a kingdom of fallen bodies and echoed cries, shadows and skeletons of what once was that could never be brought back. And she was the architect to more than a handful of the gravestones, even long before she was born.

Born to be nature’s loophole, a being that by all factors should not even exist, let alone possess so many disastrous abilities. And she would burden it for the rest of her life, however long the universe decided to allow it to be.

She doubted the fire would ever leave her to true peace. And if she had to carry it for the remainder of her days, then so be it.

She would coat her canvas in crimson instead of her hands, feel the drumming of her own heart when she wanted to end the beat of someone else’s. She would grit her teeth when she wanted to sink them into someone’s flesh. Clench her fists when she wanted to use her claws to rip shreds. 

Because, gods be good, she was Klaus Mikaelson’s daughter. Every bit of his devilry in her eyes. Every fragment of his pain and loneliness. 

But she was also Hayley Marshall’s daughter. A heart meant for protecting, understanding, and _loving._

If there was one thing to be thankful that she’d inherited from Klaus, it was his language through art. A release she had to turn to time and time again. When she felt consumed, she could simply fill in the blanks with the depths of her sorrow, the haziness of her anxiety, her fear of the dark, or her volcanos of anger. 

It was better than splitting the world in half with the tsunami roaring within her. 

And it was, above all, the very curse of her genes that she had to thank for the good things. For the love through all the pain. For the strength she had to keep going. Knowing that, whatever may happen, _someone_ would be watching. 

So she continued to swallow it all down, meet it with defiance and goodness and _hope_ , her very namesake. 

The Mikaelsons may not be the white knights in shining armor that she’d thought as a child, their legacy soaked with blood and riddled with dishonesty and betrayal, so much _anger_ in their wake, but they taught her how to do more. Be _better._

To never give up. On love, life, and everything in between.

If the world truly did end up in flames, she would be there to drench it. To plant seeds and sprout new life in a wasteland. Clean up after the wars. It was the least she could do.

And because she was a _Mikaelson_ , she would be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twitter @earpsjedi


End file.
